Delicate Strokes
by HecateA
Summary: When the Malfoy family lost its standing after the war, Draco fell back on old painting skills to keep them afloat. He had no way of knowing what would happen when he was commissioned to paint a portrait of one Astoria Greengrass. Artist!AU. Oneshot.


**Author's Note: **This story is a leftover idea from a comp a few weeks ago that I pitched to Aya. She wrote some other fabulous thing, but the idea stuck and so here is her gift fic! Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **The following characters belong to J.K. Rowling, and this story derives from her original works, storylines, and world. Please do not sue me, I can barely pay tuition.

**Dedication: **Aya

**Warnings: **NA

**Music for this fic: **_Andante, Andante _(ABBA),

* * *

**Stacked with: **MC4A; Shipping War

**Individual Challenge(s): **Hola, Bonjour, Jambo; Rainbow Focus; Misunderstood; Slytherin MC (x3); Blissfully Tragic; Seeds; Shipmas; Times to Come; Old Shoes; Location, Location, Location; Themes and Things A (Truth); Themes and Things B (Loss); Themes and Things C (Dressing Gown/Robe); Trope It Up C (Mutual Pining); Ethnic & Present (Y); Rian-Russo Inversion (Y); Long Haul

**Word Count: **3419

* * *

_**Shipping Wars**_

**Ship (Team): **Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy (Stellar Legends)

**List (Prompt): **Summer Medium 1 (Artist/Writer)

* * *

**Delicate Strokes**

_Make me sing, make me sound _

_(You make me sing and you make me) _

_Andante, Andante _

_Tread lightly on my ground _

_Andante, Andante _

_Oh please don't let me down _

—_Andante, Andante, _ABBA

When the Malfoy family had fallen, when gravitas had been replaced by gravity and riches with rags, the world had not stopped. Something had to be done for the family to keep up with the spinning of the earth.

Father wasn't going to do it. The war had drained him, his years spent at the Dark Lord's side taking twice the toll on him. He had inherited his fortune and fame and wasn't sure who to be without them or how to rebuild it all. But for Mother's sake, somebody had to act and so act Draco did.

Of course, the problem quickly arose that _he _didn't know how to do all that much either. He may as well not have attended a single day of class in seventh year—which was besides the point that, with the Dark Lord gone for good, he was unemployable. His name was like the symptom of some fierce plague, which meant he had to get creative.

And thankfully for Draco, that he could manage.

His parents hadn't known what to do, when he'd dusted off his old easel, a case of paints that needed some serious replacement, a pack of charcoal, and paintbrushes with colourfully stained handles. Those had all been used in his pre-Hogwarts schooling. Art was seen as instrumental to the education of a good, well-rounded pureblood—but nothing past a checkmark on a list of enviable and approvable qualities. They weren't sure what to do at his proposal to make it something more.

"Do you have a better idea?" he had asked defensively.

"You haven't drawn in years, sweetheart," his mother replied.

"As far as you know," Draco had said. He had hundreds of sketches in the margins of his textbook, on the back of parchment assignments, and in sketchbooks stashed under his bed and in his closet to prove otherwise.

He started circulating his portfolio and eventually the owls started coming. A magizoologist here that wanted someone to clean up quick and sloppy field notes, an old Sacred Twenty-Eight pureblood who needed a portrait done there… Work trickled in and Draco found himself satisfyingly busy.

Portraits eventually became somewhat of a niche for Draco: purebloods were cautious about who they allowed into their homes, and Draco's disgraced status seemed to work in his favour at this point.

And so he was one day called to the Greengrass Estate.

* * *

An iron fence swung open for Draco, allowing him to walk down a sidewalk and to the front door of a three-story white Georgian house with lavish bay windows. The only thing that may have looked out of place in this posh part of Muggle London were the Chinese charms hanging on the doorknob that Draco didn't recognize. Otherwise, the lawn was perfectly trimmed and the house looked well-maintained and clean.

He put down his folded easel to knock on the door, readjusting the bag over his shoulder as he waited for the answer.

"You must be Draco Malfoy," said a woman he recognized as Wang Min Greengrass from a variety of social events he'd been in or around over the years. "My, you've grown—what a pleasure to see you again."

"The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Greengrass," he said, inclining his head and stepping into the house. It too looked simultaneously stuck in time yet seamlessly modern. "You have a beautiful home."

"Thank you," she said, shutting the door behind her. "My family purchased it when they moved to England—we've done all we can to protect it since… Could I offer you tea, coffee?"

"No thank you, Mrs. Greengrass," he said. "Although I am curious to hear what it is you intend on commissioning me for…"

"Yes," Mrs. Greengrass' face fell for a second. "Yes, I suppose now you ought to know now that you're here. Daphne!"

Daphne Greengrass turned the corner lazily, her eyes flicking over to Draco for a second before turning back to her mother.

"Please, go tell your sister to get ready," she said. "Ask her if she needs help."

"Yes, mother," Daphne said before darting upstairs.

Mrs. Greengrass turned back to Draco. "Why don't you take a seat in the parlour, Mr Malfoy? That would be a good place for you to work, if you think the lighting favourable…"

He followed her into another beautiful space, decorated with ancient art and well-loaded bookshelves.

"Will I be painting one of your daughters?" Draco asked.

"Yes," Mrs. Greengrass said.

Draco nodded. He wasn't sure what all the secrecy and uncertainty was about. This was a common enough request, and it wasn't as if there was a secret that there were two Greengrass daughters. He'd gone to school with Daphne, and he knew about Astoria though she was a few years younger than them. He didn't know much about her, only that she must have graduated by now. She had always been on the quieter side, really.

"Is there a particular style that your family's portraits take that you would like me to emulate, Mrs. Greengrass?" Draco asked.

"No," Mrs. Greengrass said. "As a matter of fact, I rather you not see the others. Make Astoria uniquely hers."

Draco nodded.

"Mother?"

He spun towards the sitting room doorway at the same speed as Mrs. Greengrass. There stood Astoria, a beautiful girl with a sharp chin and round cheeks, whose lips rested in a smile. Her eyes were bright and brown, and her dark hair fell around her shoulders in delicate waves. She wore a simple black midi dress. A grey shawl was thrown over her shoulders.

"Darling," Mrs. Greengrass said. "This is Mr Draco Malfoy—the artist. Mr Malfoy, please meet my youngest daughter Astoria."

"It's a pleasure," Draco said, taking the hand she offered him.

"The pleasure is mine," she responded with a curtsey. "I like your work."

"She spent hours looking at your portfolio," Daphne called behind her.

"I did not," Astoria scoffed, red tinting her cheeks.

"Now, now," Mrs. Greengrass said, putting a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Mr. Malfoy, how is the lighting in the room?"

"Perfect," Draco said, surveying the space once again. "Where did you want us to get settled?"

It took some logistical discussion, but soon Draco was spreading a paint-splattered protective cloth on the carpet, unfolding his easel, and setting a canvas on top. Astoria's mother was fussing with the way her hair fell, as her daughter sat on one of the bay windows, one leg graciously folded over the other.

She turned back to Draco just as he was selecting the pigments he would use to paint, that way he could gauge if he had enough of the potion that would later give the portrait the ability to move. Mrs. Greengrass cleared her throat for his attention.

Suddenly she didn't seem like such a kind and gracious host anymore; there was something slightly intimidating as she whispered to him.

"If my daughter requires a break or any other accommodation, you will give it to her immediately and without question," she said. "If she tells you that she has had enough for today, you will leave the house as soon as she is taken care of, with no complaint. You will be paid a full day's salary for your work, and you will return when you are called back to finish—no questions asked. This process is to be seamless and comfortable for my daughter in every way. Am I understood?"

"Yes," Draco stuttered.

"Good," she nodded.

* * *

Astoria's eyes were on Draco, watching him as he prepared. He had primed and sanded down his canvas before coming, and was now ready to sketch out Astoria's main features in charcoal.

"Are you ready to start, Miss Greengrass?" he asked.

"As ready as I'll ever be," she smiled softly. Immediately something in Draco panicked. How on earth would he capture a smile like that?

"Wonderful," Draco said. And with that, he touched his charcoal to canvas and began.

* * *

He had worked for two hours when he noticed that Astoria's smile was fading.

"Miss Greengrass?" he asked.

"I'm quite alright," she promised. "Please, keep working."

"You justified yourself on that front quite quickly," he frowned. "We can break for the day."

"I like watching you work," Astoria blurted out. Draco blushed.

"I'll be back," he promised.

* * *

Draco bit his tongue in concentration as he thinned his paints ever so slightly for his first grey and white coat.

Astoria had glided into the room while he was focused on not diluting his paints, and came to watch.

"Mr Malfoy?" she asked when he looked done, as to avoid startling him.

"Good morning," he said. She was wearing the same dress and wrapped in the same shawl, though he had to admit that her skin looked paler today. He noticed that kind of thing, why with all the looking at her that he'd done. Not that he was complaining.

"Good morning," she replied. "Mr Malfoy, are those really the only colours you're using?"

"Today's coat of paint is just to establish the areas of light and darkness on the canvas," Draco explained. "That will be the base, for whatever's to come."

"I see," Astoria said, cocking her head to the side. "What next?"

"Then there's a quick drying spell involved, to cure that first layer of paint, and I'll use these greys and whites to create a grey scale—that way there's depth and detail in the portrait before we begin to add colour," Draco explained.

"Does that mean I don't have to sit quite so still?"

"If you don't want to, no," Draco promised.

"Wonderful," she said, lighting up. "Will it be quite distracting to you if we talk, today?"

"Not at all," Draco said. _Yes, _he thought.

Astoria smiled as she took her seat and looked at Draco with a funny little smile on her lips, as if she was excited to see him. He hadn't seen anything like it in a long time, and it made his stomach stir as he worked on enchanting the paints so that the portrait would later be able to move.

Astoria watched patiently with a sharp eye as he got set up. He dipped his paintbrush in his first splotch of paint, a shade called _First Snow. _It felt… fitting, on the day where they were to have their first conversation.

"So," Draco said. "What were you so eager to talk about today, Miss Greengrass?"

"Anything with you," she said.

He blushed.

This did not, however, stop him from enjoying one of the most lovely days of work he had ever had.

* * *

Mrs. Greengrass answered the door and her eyes widened.

"Mr Malfoy! Did you not receive our letter?"

"I… I suppose not, madam," he said.

"Astoria is unavailable today," Mrs. Greengrass said. "We'll have to reschedule. I… why don't I send you an owl with the details, Mr Malfoy? I really can't speak for long, keep an eye out for that owl, we'll reschedule…"

And with that, the door slammed. The charm, which he'd learned was for luck, on the doorframe swung.

* * *

She was curious, and so Draco invited her to come look as he retraced some of the thinning lines that contoured her painted form. He was keenly aware of how close she was, as she stood behind him and looked over his shoulder, and of how she smelled like lavender and chamomile and honey.

"You have a gentle touch," Astoria said. "I like that."

"The world needs delicate strokes," Draco said nervously. He gulped and felt her hair tickle his shoulder as she leaned in closer to look.

"I'm sorry, Mr Malfoy, am I distracting you?"

"Not at all," he lied.

* * *

"It's colour day," Astoria smiled when she came into the room.

"It is," Draco smiled. "Let me show you what I brought…"

The main shade he'd found for her hair was called _Black Garnet, _and it had just enough brown in it to capture the shade of her locks. He had an assortment of greys and creams and yellows and blacks to use.

She smiled as she looked at the small bottle of jade green he'd secured for the pins she wore in her hair.

"Good attention to detail," she noted.

"I'm good at what I do," he said.

"Oh, that much I knew," Astoria said. She tightened the shawl around her shoulders, as if a cold breeze had just come through. "Shall I sit?"

"Whenever you're ready," Draco said, readjusting himself on the stool he sat on.

Astoria took her spot and with a deep breath, Draco started layering on the colour.

He built up the depth of colour slowly but surely, stopping often to blend his brush marks and make sure that he wasn't ruining the tonal structure his earlier greyscale work had built up… In his line of work and with his status, every single portrait and piece and project mattered. It helped to build up his credibility, prove that a Malfoy could still put something beautiful into the world. But he felt the pressure for this portrait to be particularly perfect.

"How is it?" Astoria asked nervously after some time.

"I think it is going well, though I must say you're a difficult subject to capture," Draco said.

"And what makes you say that, Mr. Malfoy?" Astoria asked.

Draco blushed, wondering what on earth had made him say that and what he could possibly reply.

"You're beautiful," he said simply. Honesty had seemed wise here, but all of a sudden Draco rushed to justify himself. "The depth of colour in your hair is a wonder of its own, your eyes change in the light meaning I won't know what to do with them until I get there, everything about you is so soft that my brush strokes have to be more delicate than I'd ever anticipated…"

"Delicate," Astoria repeated quietly.

And with that, her eyes rolled back into her head and she crumpled to the ground.

* * *

When Draco knocked on the Greengrass' door a few weeks later, it was Daphne who answered.

"Merlin's Beard," she cussed. "She _did _send you a letter, didn't she? My stubborn, impossible sister..."

"Astoria?" Draco spluttered. "I—I was under the impression that I was due back at Mrs Greengrass' invitation…"

Daphne grumbled. "Not a chance. They think you pushed her to overdo it—but Astoria disagrees. Says she loves working with you."

"Please tell me that she's alright," Draco said, nerves twisting his stomach.

"I'll let her answer that one," Daphne said. "Come on then; our parents won't be out of the house forever. That girl must have known when inviting you… I'll take you to her."

This felt like a drastic step, but Draco listened to Daphne's instructions to leave his supplies by the door, and followed her up the stairs with only his satchel. Daphne knocked on the door and called something in Chinese that Draco didn't understand in the slightest. Somebody called back and his heart fluttered at the sound of Astoria's voice.

Daphne waited a few seconds before opening the door and holding it open for Draco.

"I'll give you two time," Daphne said. "Because I'm in the running for Sister of the Year, apparently."

Draco thanked her, still unsure as to why, and stepped inside.

Astoria's bedroom, which was frankly a bizarre place for Draco to find himself examining, looked barren and sanitized at the moment. Every available surface was covered by sachets of herbs, bottles of potions, vials of fluids, Healers' equipment, spare blankets, changes of sheets, mugs left behind, books, basins of clean water…

Astoria herself was sitting in bed, hair parted down the middle and resting over her shoulder in a long braid. She was wearing a black robe over a nightgown, and Draco was alarmed by how much weight she'd seemed to have lost and how pale she looked.

"Don't look so concerned," she said. "Believe me. I'm getting better."

"Astoria…" he said quietly. "What happened to—are you okay?"

"I'm quite alright," she said. "But nevermind that. I got so excited to see how you'd add all that colour that I pushed too much. My parents were furious with you, but you did nothing wrong—are you alright?"

"Me?" Draco said. "Why… why of course I am! It's you that I worry for."

Astoria took a deep breath.

"My parents didn't tell you why they commissioned a portrait of me, did they?" Astoria asked.

"No, I'm afraid they didn't," Draco said. "It didn't matter…"

"But it does," Astoria said. She smiled. "You see, Mr. Malfoy…"

"Draco," he said. "Please."

"Draco," she nodded. When she said his name, her resolve seemed to crumple. "Do you have that colour palette with you? The one you were going to use to draw me."

He nodded and reached into his satchel. He looked around the room awkwardly before sitting by her bedside and drawing his paintcase out, showing her the small vials of pigment he'd brought. Soft jade green, a handful of browns that he would mix to colour her hair, a shade of amber he'd composed himself for his eyes, an ocean gray for the shawl around her shoulders, a cardinal red for her lips, a luxurious satiny black…

"They're beautiful," Astoria said. "But you see, I think if someone were really to paint me they would have to… their colours would have to be bleaker. There would be fewer. Then again, the thing about portraits is that you're not supposed to make people look real, not really—you're supposed to make us look beautiful, because you're responsible for the version of us that will be forever."

"Why are you saying that?" Draco asked.

"I'm dying," she said so simply it didn't feel true. "There's a curse in our family, something in our blood. My family left China to try and escape it, but with no luck. It surfaces every few generations, and you are looking at its newest manifestation."

"I had no idea," Draco said quietly.

"My mother is quite careful to keep the details in the family," Astoria said.

"Miss Greengrass…"

"Astoria," she interrupted.

"Astoria," Draco nodded. "I'm very sorry."

"Don't be," Astoria said. "I love my family. And if it were between me or my sister, I'm glad it isn't her."

Draco swallowed. He wished he could understand that, but he was spending his days running away from his and trying to redress his family name.

"All this to say, I apologize for dragging you into this," Astoria said. "I apologize for trespassing on what should have been a professional relationship. I apologize for getting you in trouble, and very much hope that it hasn't affected your reputation or career. You can leave now, if you want."

Draco looked at the box of paints in his hands.

"You know, Astoria, if someone were to paint me I don't know what colours they would use either," he said. "I don't… on some days, I don't think they would use any."

"Don't say that," she said quietly.

"I don't," Draco said. "I don't. And maybe that will change one day, maybe I'll get better. But until then, I can live with… with the fact that other people are going to have to colour me in and throw some beauty into the world. I don't think there's any shame in that; I think that's why we all have eyes on each other."

Astoria nodded.

"If you want to finish this portrait, which I hope you do Draco, you'll have to use delicate strokes," Astoria said. "Carefully and gently and slowly and… and we might not finish it. I don't quite know. That's the thing about me, I can't make promises."

"I'm always careful," Draco said quietly, closing the top of his paintbox.

"You don't mind?" Astoria asked.

Draco shook his head and reached into his bag once again, retrieving a sketchbook. He unwrapped the cord that wrapped around it and cracked open its spine for her.

He showed her the pages there. There were some practise sketches which he'd done for professional reasons, to try and make sure he got her shape and energy and softness right. There were some other drawings he'd done just for the sake of trying to get her out of his head. He hadn't succeeded, and he was here now.

"Colour or not, I don't mind," he said.


End file.
